


Love, and Other Expletives

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Quilldu Prompt Fic [4]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sort of), Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Aromantic, Blow Jobs, Bottom Peter Quill, Bottom Yondu, I am incapable of writing any other sort, M/M, Masturbation, No Underage Sex, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Rimming, Switching, Underage Masturbation, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yondu will fuck anyone. Peter doesn't want to be just <em>anyone.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, and Other Expletives

**Author's Note:**

> **I have half a million WIPs, but this plot bunny wouldn't let me go. Features: plenty of switching it up in the bedroom, because that's what floats my boat.**

Do you ever think Thoughts about people you shouldn’t think Thoughts about? If so (and you’re lying if you claim otherwise) then you’ll know that telling yourself _those Thoughts aren’t right_ is one surefire way of stoking the flame.

Peter’s bunk has been too small for him for five whole years. 

It’s the sort of thing you notice when it’s packed into the room besides Yondu’s – the one which used to be for trinket storage; Peter knows because he still finds the odd bauble tucked in corners, although Yondu swears on any and all gods that it’s a decent sized space for a teenage Terran. When you’re covering your ears and cocooning yourself in blankets to block the sounds filtering in from next door, it’s also the sort of thing you concentrate on when you’re refusing to get hard. 

In the end, Peter refuses to get hard in much the same way that he refuses to internally substitute the girl in Yondu’s bed for himself; i.e., not with as much effort as he ought to, and ultimately unsuccessfully. 

She’s enthusiastic about the proceedings. So’s Yondu. The sound of their skin meeting, of the wet squelch that can only be Yondu’s cock slamming root-deep in her sopping hole, is one that’s familiar to Peter. He’s sixteen now. He’s been bundled into this cubby since he was picked up aged nine, and whether Yondu hasn’t realized how thin the walls are or doesn’t care, the sounds of him fucking have accompanied Peter’s troubled sleep since he was too young to understand what he was hearing. 

*** 

It’d been funny, at first. When he’d first pegged that the noises from the other side of the door weren’t just Weird Alien Sounds but proof of that elusive and taboo (and therefore inherently amusing) action: _sex_ … Well, Peter’d had to bite his sleeve to muffle his laughter. 

After that, it’d gotten irritating. Yondu gave the same assurance, no matter who had invited themselves into his bunk (Peter learnt, gradually, that the relationship between captain and crew was curiously symbiotic, cemented on one end by orders and at the other by the casual offering of a quickie when tensions got high on deck). This reassurance goes as followed: “Don’t worry about the boy, he’s sleepin’.” 

Only it’s impossible to sleep when you’re listening to the tacking skid of skin-on-skin, the grunts and the groans and the noises of lips glancing off one another then parting in pleading hunger… Peter uses a pillow to muffle the worst of it, and glares daggers at Yondu next day when the captain lopes onto the Bridge around lunch, as is his prerogative, whereas Peter’s been on scrub shifts with Kraglin since the wee hours. Yondu sniggers when Peter kicks him in the leg and tells him to keep it down before they part ways that night. He ruffles his hair, says ‘quit actin’ a child; look on it as yer education – fuck knows no one else’s gonna teach ya’, and then leaves to make the two-backed beast with a yellow-skinned Xandarian lad of twenty-odd years who they picked up at the last port. He’s gone before Peter can argue that he _is_ still a child – but at least Yondu takes a little more care to be quiet that night. That or he’s been gagged. 

Whatever concern he has for allowing Peter his eight requisite hours of beauty sleep, it lasts roughly a fortnight. Then it’s back to the usual roster of midnight thuds and moans. One time Peter shows up on Bridge bleary eyed and stumbles over his own oversized boots, and after their next port-stop he returns to his room to find a set of fancy high-tech earplugs on his bed, the sort they flog on Nova markets for a few hundred units apiece – he doesn’t know if he’d be more flattered knowing Yondu paid for them or stole them from some rich fuck’s pocket. 

They help. Peter settles in to snooze, and comforts himself that he’ll never have to suffer sex-noises again. 

Sex-noises they might be, but they don’t register as _sexual_ – not until Peter hits puberty. For a coupla years after that, it’s the recipient of Yondu’s attentions he pictures – when it’s a girl of course. Space is a lot more respecting of the many ways in which one can bat, but Peter’d been raised Terran and maintains certain trepidations about _men_ and _desiring them_ , even in privacy. (His horny body is less respecting of Peter’s pride or morals, and it gets hard when it sees _Kraglin_ strip to shower. It obviously has no taste, so Peter ignores it.) 

Then he’s fifteen. And when he’s fifteen, the dreams start. 

Blue fingers caressing his thighs, then dipping between. His legs wrapped around a solid blue waist, bounced on Yondu’s lap in the captain’s chair – or better yet, bent over it, Yondu pulling his hair and biting his nape with every rough jerk of his hips. 

Peter hates himself at first. Hates Yondu too, for the longest of times, and glares and backtalks whenever they’re together until Yondu boxes his ears in sheer frustration. When _that_ makes Peter hard – and thank fuck Yondu doesn’t notice how his oversized leather pants suddenly aren’t all that loose anymore – he avoids him instead. Yondu rolls his eyes and lets him get on with it. That night, when Peter finishes simultaneously with him and Czar, his moan obliterated by theirs, and rolls over to reach for the tissues and get some goddam well-deserved sleep, he’s prevented by the mention of his name. 

“Just teenage years,” Yondu’s telling Czar. His voice is hoarse and rough, very freshly fucked, and Peter imagines him sprawled over Czar’s big green body, cum dripping from his hole. “Petey’ll get over it.” 

“Hm.” There’s a soft squelch; a gasp. Peter’s traitorous mind’s eye supplies Czar seating Yondu on his thick green fingers, captain oversensitized and moaning. “Bothers you though. Lookit this. Still all tense, and I was nice enough to jerk ya.” 

“This’s to keep you lot from _gettin’ tense_ ,” Yondu retorts, although his voice is ragged and breathless. He’s grinding on those fingers – impressive: his prostate must be bruised up like a goddam tangerine if he’s had Czar’s fat cock hammering it for the past hour, and Peter winces on his behalf. “I can deal with my shit alone – got no need of yer goddam therapy sessions. Now shaddup. You’ve had your fuck, and I wanna sleep.” 

_You and me both_ , Peter thinks. But he wakes having creamed his sheets – again, second time in one night – and as much as he hates to think of himself as a boy (which is probably why Yondu always calls him that) in that moment he can’t deny he is one. 

His humiliation escalates a hundredfold when he realizes whose name he’s saying. 

Avoidance isn’t working. Peter’s fast running out of tactics to try, but he’s nothing if not inventive – his next, _pretend everything’s normal_ , is his most daring yet. 

*** 

That final phase lasts until he’s eighteen. 

Kraglin’s Peter’s age, or a couple of years older (Ravagers don’t keep track, and Peter’s own years are guesstimated). At twenty-ish he looks mature enough to buy liquor and pull girls without question at Nova-owned bars, despite being skinny and a good few inches Peter’s smaller. He cements the occasion of his assumed legality in the eyes of intergalactic law, by leaving Peter with the hookers at the bar and nervously asking Yondu if he’d like a drink. 

That night Peter hears him get fucked, and fists his cock and bites his sleeve to stifle his moan, finishing half a minute before they do. Kraglin’s flushed the next morning, a limp in his walk and a bright smile on his face. When he sees Peter it wavers, obviously remembering his room’s proximity to the captain’s quarters, preparing for the inevitable tease. Peter’s only too happy to oblige. Smirking, he leans on his side, squishing him against the side of the M-ship they’re supposed to be rigging so it quits backfiring on take-off. “Someone had fun.” 

Kraglin shrugs him off, but can’t fake grumpiness. “Fuck yeah. It was… Yeah.” He shivers. Peter, observing quietly, wonders what images are being relived as Kraglin’s eyelids droop to a sated half-mast. 

Of course it’d be good; he’d never have expected otherwise. No one leaves the captain’s bed unsatisfied. Little wonder, given how much practice Yondu’s had. 

Kraglin senses something off in Peter’s posture. He squints at the closed-off, guarded cross of his arms a moment before sniffing and returning to work. Lug nuts ain’t gonna tighten themselves, as Yondu likes to say when he catches folks slacking – and if they’re unlucky the message will be enforced by the blazing crack of a wrench over their crown, or worse: a whistle. “So?” Kraglin asks, when the silence has ground too long. “When’re you gonna have a go?” 

Peter focusses on his own section of exposed bolts. The scritch of Kraglin’s powertool is like nails down a blackboard, but Peter’d rather swap that for his tapedeck and listen to it on repeat for the next ten years than suffer this conversation. He tightens his next nut with more vehemence than any inanimate object deserves. “Ain’t I too young? Y’know he doesn’t fuck kids…” 

Kraglin blinks up at him, rather than down. “You think you’re a kid? You looked in a mirror lately?” 

The realization that he’s taller than Kraglin (taller than Yondu too) finally sinks in. Heaven knows why it’s taken so long – Yondu complains about it every other time he’s on the Bridge. Peter swallows: throat raw, cock twitching against jumpsuit zipper. Aw hell. He’s dreamt about this for so many years, and now it’s an actual possibility the temptation’s almost terrifying in its intensity. He could. But… _should_ he? 

Kraglin smirks, and scrapes the last nut tight. He’s finished up while Peter was mulling. “Think I’ll let ya work this ‘un out alone,” he says, rotating his thin shoulders to relieve them from their workman’s hunch and scratching greasy fingers through his beard. “M’calling break. Later, Pete.” 

Peter watches him walk away. He notes how the swing in his hips is crimped by that telling, unapologetic limp. And that night, rather than placing himself in Kraglin’s position – ass up on the bed while Yondu plows him from behind, a fantasy he’s toyed with so often he stiffens on instinct – he pictures it the other way around. 

His captain clutching a pillow. Burrowing into it, biting it, ripping strips of synthetic fabric and stuffing loose as Peter fucks him hard enough to make him forget any man he’s had before. 

He could make that a reality. He could walk out his room, storm into the one next door, flip Yondu on his stomach and plow his firm blue ass until the red giant they’re orbiting breaks its light over the _Eclector_ ’s flank like a bloody dawn. 

But he knows deep down that even if he were to approach Yondu and Yondu were to say yes (because he isn’t under any obligation to, although the only folks he turns away are those deemed too inexperienced or sentimental; those in danger of getting attached) – the deal would be unsatisfying. Peter gets his body, nothing more. No emotions involved. That’s the Ravager way. Emotions are messy, and they make everything difficult, and… 

…And why does Peter’s chest hurt when he imagines what can never be? He dreams of being Yondu’s right hand man, loyal and fierce as any trained guard dog but trusted to turn his own jobs, take his own clients, have enough freedom that he doesn’t go stir crazy and itch for the open stars. And then, he’d slope back to the cabin next door every night. He’d share Yondu’s bed – a big bed, far larger than his own, built for one explicit purpose. But Peter wouldn’t use it for that. At least, not _just_ for that, because there’s fucking but there’s also sleeping and stroking and kissing and touching and more… 

He wonders if Yondu’s ever had anyone like that. If he has, they’re long gone now. But while his body aches for his captain whenever he hears him cum with that familiar little grunt and gasp, he knows that if he ever asks to be serviced he’ll be cementing himself forever among those other Ravagers in Yondu’s mind. Crew. Soldiers. Business partners. Their sex would be a transaction. And sure, it’d be _nice_. Peter’s envious of the way Yondu moves among his men so easily, trading professional nods when they’re in public and lascivious grins when they’re on their ship, all of them knowing him as intimately as he knows them. There’s a certain power in it. He doesn’t show favouritism, not on deck – but Peter notices Czar, Kraglin, and an older woman Yondu’s age are the ones to visit him most often, and they’re also the ones Yondu trusts to oversee the ship when he’s flying solo. There’s a certain camaraderie there, a sense of sharing something beyond the bonds that tie a captain to those he commands. 

Peter wants to partake in that. But he also wants something _more_. 

And so, rather than marching over to the captain and propositioning him, Peter lurks in the shadows. He lurks and lusts and waits, tormenting himself with the thoughts of having him in the one way no one else has – as a _partner_ , not a one-night-stand. 

After two years, everyone’s had enough. Yondu takes it on himself to make first move. 

“Damn, boy,” he exclaims, swinging onto the stool besides Peter in the cafeteria. A tankard of something alcoholic slops home too, a fair amount sloshing over Yondu’s sleeve. It’s had worse stains, Peter’s sure. “If ya don’t geddon with it, I’m gonna fuck you right here.” He takes note of Peter’s stony countenance and smirks, mischievous and playful, leaning in with no care for personal space. His arm’s heavy on Peter’s shoulder and Peter’s struck by the intensity of his smell: something masculine and feral masked beneath leather, sweat, and whatever he’s guzzling. “Or d’you wanna fuck me? I take cock mighty good. And I seen yours in the showers, Quill; you ain’t got nothin’ to be shy about –“ 

Peter stands, taking his breakfast tray with him. Yondu’s arm flops back to his side. That bright beam turns to a scowl, and he jams a warning finger in Peter’s face. “You better figure it out quick, is all. Otherwise I’ll lose patience and you’re back on the menu.” 

“Your boys ain’t tasted Terran before,” Peter fills before Yondu can, and blushes when his navy lips quirk. Damn, he wants them on him. Around him. And try as he might, he can’t resist any longer… “Okay. You’re that desperate for my cock, you gottit. Tonight?” 

Yondu snickers, taking another long and foul-smelling draft from the tankard. “Yer the only desperate one here, boy.” 

Yes, he is. Yondu’s approached him because Peter’s stressing about this unduly, and he’s envisioning this as yet another potential wrinkle that can be smoothed by the simple insertion of his Tab A into Peter’s Slot B. That’s the problem. And it’s one no amount of sex, no matter how mind-blowing, can cure. 

_Blowing_ turns out to be right on the mark. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Yondu’s on his knees, palming the front of Peter’s pants. He’s already half-hard, but tents more as he’s massaged by that warm blue palm, their clashing skintones separated by a wall of maddening leather. Yondu shoves at his abdomen, backing Peter against the door. Then leans in, lapping at the material like a dog, smearing it in spit while Peter clutches his temples and swears. Yondu hums when his thumbs dig into the implant – so Peter does it again and again, until he has his captain groaning, vibrations travelling through Peter’s crotch as if he’s sandwiched to a bass speaker. Yondu unzips him, Peter powerless to protest. Those teeth prickle just as much as Peter’s always suspected when they graze his weeping cockhead. They’re stowed behind Yondu’s lips but still dagger-sharp, and the danger of having them around him is almost as exhilarating as the knowledge that Yondu can’t whistle when he’s being facefucked. 

“Oh –“ Peter gasps when Yondu bobs and swallows him easily down to the root, then retreats just as rapidly in a single teasing plummet and ascent. He tests the boundaries – pinning his blue cheeks between his palms (they hollow as Yondu sucks) and fucking in shallow bursts. Yondu rolls with it, lets him do as he pleases. And when Peter’s eyes drift shut, he sneaks a sly hand under his crotch and circles the sweat-damp space behind Peter’s balls, making him tense and whimper. 

He advances further, over his perineum. At first he simply traces his hole, executing the swirl of his tongue around Peter’s prick in miniature. But then he begins exerting a fraction more pressure every time Peter withdraws from his slick stretched lips. 

When his finger breaches it’s dry and a little painful. Yondu doesn’t insert more than the tip – he must be cued enough in non-verbal bedroom communication that he takes the tension in Peter’s thighs as a plea. He tugs it out again, making the retraction sensual by continuing his rubbing and toying with the flexible pucker, and swivels his thumb on the underside of his balls until Peter’s half-convinced he’s looking to dig him a new hole. It’s delicious. Peter arches towards it, pulling out of the hot wet cradle of Yondu’s mouth. Craning down at him, he focusses on the spit-string that clings to his prick at one end and Yondu’s lips at the other, and the flicker of navy as Yondu’s tongue darts lizard-fast to catch the drop of pre-cum before it can slither off to stain Peter’s pants. 

That tongue… Peter wonders if he can make Yondu understand what _else_ he wants without words. 

Evidently, he’s damn good at psychic projection. 

“Want me to lick yer ass?” Yondu asks, casual as if he’s asking the weather. Peter nods until his neck aches. However, when Yondu stands and steps back, shucking Peter away from the wall when his knees go weak and not bothering to wipe his mouth, Peter won’t let him push him to lay down. 

“Nah,” he says, voice trembling with the effort of ignoring the cock jutting from his captain’s open leathers. Strips off his shirt in mechanical motions, and kicks off boots to prop besides Yondu’s at the bed’s foot. “C’mere. You lay down, and I… While you…” A vague gesticulation completes the sentence. Yondu cocks his head – then his eyes widen. 

“Kinky.” He grins at Peter, bright as if Peter’s brought in a nice fat prize, and pours himself liquidly onto the mattress. “C’mon then, pup,” he says, bracing his feet and parting his thighs. “Sit on my face, suck me, do what the fuck ya want. Jus’ hurry up about it, willya?” 

Peter has no problem obeying that order. He tears his gaze from Yondu’s crotch. There’s something reptilian about touching his skin, like where Peter has pores Yondu has scales a fraction too small to see; it should be a turn-off, but Peter’s gotta admit he finds the lack of pubic hair arousing. The scratch of Yondu’s facial stubble, when Peter slings a thigh to either side of his head and Yondu hungrily crunches up to reach where he’s needed, is even moreso. 

“Fuck,” he breathes again, and doubts he’ll be saying much more for the next few hours. 

He’s proved right. Peter can barely concentrate to make the blowjob decent. He works his mouth back and forth along Yondu’s shaft, admiring the glossy navy blood beneath his skin. Peter’s bigger all over, which is also a total turn-on, but he’s never quite gotten the hang of ignoring his gag reflex. Sucking Yondu to the root is daunting. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t give it his best effort, and doesn’t mean Yondu doesn’t reward his efforts in kind. 

Peter’s ass is now the center of his world. 

It sounds ridiculous because it is. He’s slept with folks before – fucked guys and fucked girls and had one run-in with an A’askavarian Who Shall Not Be Named. But he’s never had anyone kiss his ass without any assumption that they’ll be fucking it later; never had anyone dot close-mouthed pecks down his crack then dabble their tongue over his hole, feeling the pucker’s star-like creases before flattening against them to lather it gently open, _then_ narrow it to a point and wriggle inside… 

When Yondu tilts, rubbing his rough chin over Peter’s perineum and inner thighs while his hands alternately fondle his balls and tweak his cock, Peter can’t hold back a moment longer. He sucks Yondu deep, deep as he can, and thinks only of the flesh sitting heavy on his tongue as he spurts messily over Yondu’s neck and collarbones. 

Yondu catches him around the hips so Peter doesn’t flop on his face and smother him. Pushes him gently to one side, off his cock – Peter moans in disapproval, but figures he can’t fault him given he hadn’t so much been offering mutual pleasure as contemplatively holding his dick in his mouth. “You don’t gotta,” he says when Peter forces himself out of his haze and reaches for the spit-slathered length. But he doesn’t stop him either. 

Peter watches his face in those final moments, wanting to put an expression to the sound that’s been haunting him since he was old enough to hunger for it. When he feels the splatter against his fingers, dribbling down the outside of his fist, he immortalizes the whole picture, best he can, and stares long after Yondu collapses horizontal. 

“What’chu lookin’ at?” Yondu mutters, not budging his forearm from where it’s flung over his eyes. “I got something on my face?” He does. It’s Peter’s cum, so he feels justified in licking it off. Yondu stops him before he can turn it into a kiss, smirk amused but adamant, and purrs when Peter instead crashes behind him, angling up on one elbow so he can at least touch Yondu’s mouth, which is apparently allowed contact with every part of Peter’s body but the one where he wants it most. He strokes his lips, ghosting fingertips over their sensitive bow. Then pushes on the lower until it parts and he can slot his thumb inside. 

“Next time I top.” 

Yondu snorts. He spits the thumb out and shuffles so his shoulders are pressed against Quill’s chest, nestling into the curve of his larger body. “Whatever.” 

*** 

Peter’s true to his word. 

He returns the very next night – because if he wears Yondu out so much that he can’t take anyone else, that’s almost the same as having him solo, right? Yondu opens his cabin door, sees who it is, and laughs. It’s one of his mean little snickers that predicts impending insults. Peter stands stiff and tall, ready to weather whatever’s flung his way. 

“Back so soon?” 

“Yep.” 

“You’re one horny a-hole, Quill.” His eyes scoot down his body, taking in the gathering chub at his crotch. “Or you _have_ one horny a-hole. Want me to fuck it?” 

Peter frowns. “No, I wanna fuck yours.” 

“Right, right…” Yondu nods along, breezy and carefree, as if he hadn’t forgotten Peter’s promise from the night before, the moment his mouth shut. He’s brushed him out of his mind for exactly the reason Peter fears, the reason why he’s avoided this situation for so long – because now Yondu doesn’t see him as different. He doesn’t see him as _special_. He just sees him as another crewman to satisfy, so everyone ticks over happy and no one gets pent up and instigates a mutiny. 

Peter feels queasy. But when Yondu comes to a decision and shunts the door wide enough to fit Peter’s bulk, he doesn’t reject the invitation. 

They go slow, peeling aside layers of leather and running exploratory fingers over every exposed inch. “You’re big,” Yondu mutters, palms resting on Peter’s chest, and the toothy smile shows he’s felt the thud of Peter’s raising pulse. “Hm. Yeah, big boy. You like that?” 

Peter does. He likes it a lot. So does Yondu, when Peter picks him up in a chest-to-chest version of a piggy back; he squeezes Peter’s waist between his thighs and loops muscled arms across his shoulders, Peter supporting him under the ass and standing with his legs braced and knees locked straight. “Could ride ya like this,” he hisses in Peter’s ear. Follows it up with a lick that traces the tendon that stretches from collarbone to jaw, and bites the lobe hard enough to draw blood. 

Peter groans. Each time Yondu shifts, heavy and solid in his arms, his cock tacks and smears on Peter’s belly. The grinds on Peter’s own prick – by now fully blood bloated, aching like an overtensed muscle and liberally juicing Yondu’s backside in precum – are too calculated to be coincidence. Yondu’s chuckle confirms it. “Or not. Don’t think you could stay standin’ – oh! Okay.” 

He’s been given a challenge. 

Peter shifts Yondu’s weight to one hip, forcing his captain to cling to him – he glares the whole while, but doesn’t set his feet down. He’s an unmistakable weight, pulling Peter over to one side, but Peter manages to stagger to the desk and pop the lid on the pot Yondu keeps out for occasions like this without tripping. 

He sits Yondu on the desk while he slicks his fingers. Stands between his legs, which open for him without question, and hefts him up once to hook his calves over Peter’s lower back. Yondu hums, delighted and amused and more than a little sceptical. That last expression is clouded when Peter tips rearwards to maintain his balance while he plucks apart Yondu’s buttocks. They’re already slightly spread from the stretch of Peter’s sturdy body between them, and the ease with which his first lubed digit slips home is a thrill and a reminder of how many Yondu’s taken before, all at once. 

He opens to Peter easily, knowing how to relax and bear down; Peter suspects Yondu’s body is well-trained enough that he’d be more than capable of taking it should Peter want it rough and brutal, no prep whatsoever. He also suspects that the gasps being buried in his neck are for his own benefit – but pushes away that disturbing niggle before it can hook to his heart like a cancer-cell and duplicate until it’s all that’s left. 

As if to quell those thoughts, when he presses his tip to the stretched entrance and slides home, he’s as gentle as a breeze. He’s expecting to have to wait halfway for Yondu to adjust – although his arms are already protesting at the strain; his captain ain’t the most _svelte_ after all. But instead, he glides in with scarcely any resistance, and finds Yondu smirking at him in that irritating, competitive _I can take whatever you give_ way of his that’s just begging for Peter to push his limits. 

Push them Peter does, when he lowers Yondu to the desk still stuffed and hauls himself over him to chase a kiss. 

Yondu ducks to one side. An arm comes up, whip fast, blocking Peter before their lips can meet. Peter wrinkles his eyebrows, shaking his head quizzically as he registers that Yondu’s pupils are sharp pinpricks, no longer dilated to swallow the ruby iris. “Uh. Is that, is something… Do you… uh, want me to stop?” 

The way Yondu glowers when he brings his heels to rest at the small of Peter’s back, and squeezes him in until he’s fully seated once more, is all the motivation Peter needs. 

“Right,” he says, feigning cheer. Yondu’ll come round to kissing, he’s sure. “No stopping it is. On with the sex?” 

If Yondu rolled his eyes any harder they’d carry on into his skull. “No shit. M’starting to think you called me here to warm yer dick, not get fucked by it.” 

_I didn’t call you, I came to you,_ Peter wants to say. But that’s far too finicky a point to pick up on unless he’s actively searching for evidence that Yondu can’t be bothered to remember shit about their liaisons, which is one potentiality Peter doesn’t dare contemplate. Captain’s just getting senile. If Peter’s twenty, Yondu’s probably peaking – what, forty now? Hard to tell, what with the blue. 

But if there’s one thing that’s obvious, it’s that Yondu’s as impatient in the bedroom as he is everywhere else. “C’mon boy,” he growls. This time he bangs his heels off Peter’s kidneys, jolting the prick that’s squelched deep inside him, moulding him to its intrusion. “M’gonna go soft if ya don’t quit slackin’.” 

“And I’ll bet you can’t get it up twice anymore either.” That earns him a smack. It’s teasing. Mostly. Peter grins, and as he can’t kiss the scowl off Yondu’s face he has to make do with pistoning his hips until it twists into a loose-lipped moan. 

In the end, it all goes fine and dandy until they cum. 

“Fuck,” breathes Yondu, head tipped all the way back. It sparks a special thrill in Peter, because out of all the times he’s listened to Yondu pound his crew he’s only ever heard him spill with a grunt: a nonsense-sound, an utterance that encapsulates everything it needs within a breathy syllable no universal translator can provide adequate results for. It’s what urges his own climax. Peter leans over the table, bending Yondu pliant to the thrust and pull of his cock, and maximizes on his blissed out haze – lips parted, eyes closed – to steal that forbidden kiss and moan his name into him at one end while he empties himself into the other. 

Yondu clamps on his softening prick hard enough to ache. He doesn’t kick Peter again – in fact he immediately revokes all contact he’s able to, knees sliding off Peter’s waist and hands dropping flat against the tabletop. Body language is, as ever, more eloquent than words. For whatever reason, he’s asking for space, and it’d be a crueller partner than Peter who denied it him. Peter withdraws with a wince. He remains hovering over him, half-tense and all-nervous, wishing he could read the sudden shut-off poker face that’s installed itself, converting Yondu from eyebrows to chin into a plastic mask. 

“Uh. Whoops. No kissing, right? Guess I forgot.” As if he could ever convince Yondu it was a _mistake_. Sure enough, that glare calls bullshit louder than if he’d been armed with a megaphone. Peter’s suddenly very aware of his nakedness. His cock’s hanging flaccid between his legs, sticky with lube and semen. There’s a creamy drizzle under Yondu’s ass, cum that bubbled out as Peter worked his shaft free. It’s obscured from view as Yondu pushes to sit, legs clamped shut and eyes frosty with what Peter’s beginning to recognize as anger. 

Shit. When he wears that expression, arrows invariably follow… Only one thing to do. 

“I love you,” Peter blurts. 

It’s a lucky shot. Shock punches the rage that’d just begun to translate into bared teeth and threats. It’s quickly replaced with disbelief. Then – worse – horror. 

“ _What?_ ” 

Peter decides now would be a damn decent time for any watching god to hurl a lightning bolt his way. Failing that, he’ll find a dark corner to crawl up and die in. “I… I…” He moves to touch Yondu’s shoulder. 

Yondu jerks away. Catches himself, glares at Peter, and barges him ferociously backwards. “Geddout.” 

Now it’s Peter’s turn to ask “What?” His version is significantly squeakier. 

“Geddout, now.” And he purses his lips to whistle. 

Peter doesn’t bother to grab his pants. 

He scarpers, ducking nude into the corridor and making the sprint of shame to the next door down, refusing to acknowledge the unfortunate rookie on cleaning duty who’s just gotten a meaty eyeful. Once in there, he collapses on his bed and breathes. He breathes for – well, he doesn’t know how long. They’re fast and high, borderline panicked, and with his heart revving like a fresh-gunned M-ship engine time has slowed to a treacle crawl. 

That’s why when the door slams open and Yondu stalks in, fully dressed, sees Peter prone and nude with dried cum stuck to his dick, swears, lobs his pants at his face and storms right out again, it jolts him from his stupor. Peter glances at his watch and realizes he hasn’t moved in an hour. Yondu probably only came to check he hadn’t had a heart attack – he knows Peter’s got clothes changes to spare. That or he wanted to mock him… 

Peeling the pants off, Peter tosses them on the floor and rolls over to beat his head on his pillow. No. This was beyond what a little (read: lot) of gentle (relentless) teasing could absolve him of. Yondu hadn’t just been pissed, he’d been _fuming_ – and now Peter imagines him on the other side of that wall, swearing when he sees the mess they’ve made of his desk and sweeping all his mussed datapads and trinkets off it in a surge of wrathful energy – 

_Crash_. 

There it is. Peter smiles a little at that. He still knows the bastard like no one else. 

Which is why he rouses himself after stewing in obstinate silence a full fifteen minutes longer, and slopes to the neighbouring shower stalls to freshen up. Because he knows Yondu, and if Peter’s not decent by the time Yondu stomps back into his room to yell at him _properly_ he’ll end up with an arrow between the eyes. 

*** 

He almost does anyway. 

“What the hell were you thinkin’, boy?” Yondu rages. Their confrontation’s actually occurred the next morning, both of them having slept and simmered in uneasy preparation. Now his weapon twizzles on Peter’s temple, dainty and deadly in equal measure. It’s outside of his peripherals but that radiation-hot sizzle is impossible to ignore. “ _Love_? The fuck you talkin’ about _love_ for? You gone loopy in that fool Terran head of yours?” 

A palm swings for his cheek. Yondu remembers at the last minute that if he smacks him too hard his arrow will punch through Peter’s skull breadthways, and relocates his hand to Peter’s gut, where it delivers itself as a clenched fist. 

“Oof –“ 

“Yeah, you better be sorry! I don’t wanna hear none of that talk again, y’hear me? Don’t go leakin’ yer dumb _sentimental_ notions, boy. Certainly don’t go tanglin’ ‘em up with me.” 

“But,” croaks Peter, bent double. “I don’t understand – I, I like you, and I like to fuck you, and you make me laugh, and –“ 

“That’s not love!” 

“Why not?” It’s the only counter Peter can think of, and it springs out of his throat before he can thoroughly mull it through. For the best, as it turns out – the fight deflates from Yondu and he sags onto the bed, whistling the arrow into its holster and burying his head in his hands. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“What – what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Peter, scrambling besides him, is for one second terrified that he’s crying. Yondu, who’s only kneading his forehead with tired knuckles, makes a noise that’s exasperated and pissed off in equal measure. 

“Your species,” he says roughly, and Peter wants to shake him because what does that have to do with anything? “They monogamous? They tend to stick with one guy or gal at a time?” 

Peter flounders. “Uh. That’s the idea, I guess –“ 

“So when you start hungerin’ for me, you mistake lust for love.” He waves off Peter’s protest. “Or – or they’re all muddled for ya. Who the fuck knows. Point is, what you’re feelin’ right now – that _love_ …” He hurls the word out, sour-faced like he’s sucked on a lemon. “Your _love_ ain’t for everyone. Some folks just like t’fuck.” 

Blushing, Peter scoots away. “I know what casual sex is, Yondu.” 

Yondu slaps his leg. “Then ya know not everyone wants a goddam relationship. Right?” 

Peter still doesn’t understand how that fits. “But I want one with you –“ he tries, but clamps his jaws when Yondu gives him a look and flips his coat off the arrow. 

“Thas better. You don’t do no more talking now, not until I say. Listen, yeah?” He waits for Peter’s confirming nod. Then the arrow’s covered, and Peter can breathe easy again – at least, for the next five seconds while Yondu gathers himself before continuing. “You’re mine,” he explains. Then sees Peter’s pupils all but burst and hastily revokes the claim – “Dammit boy, will you jus’ _listen?_ You’re mine an’ I’m yours, but I belong to more than you.” 

“The crew.” In all honesty he wouldn’t complain if Yondu kept up his dalliances – does wonders for onboard morale, for one thing. Peter would loathe it, but so long as he got _something_ no one else did, he could live with jealousy. He’d know he was the one Yondu always came back to, and that’d be enough. 

But Yondu’s shaking his head again, frustration written into the creases around his gore-red eyes. “Nah; you ain’t thinkin’ about this right… Les put it another way. What yer offerin’ me – it’s your love, yeah? Your, uh, heart?” 

It would be wrong to giggle at such sappy notions coming from Yondu Udonta, infamous space buccaneer. Peter pinches his lips together and inclines his head. 

“Okay,” Yondu continues, sounding more flustered than he would discussing any perversity under the galaxy’s many suns. “So, look at it like this. What yer offerin’, I don’t… I don’t got none to give in return. You… you deserve better than that, I guess.” 

Peter can’t help but crack at that – “I know you like to stoke them rumours that claim you’re a heartless git, but you _did_ stop them eating me, y’know.” 

The knock of a plated shoulder on his is the friendliest gesture he’s been victim to since Yondu forced his lock. “Different kinds of heart, boy. I can love ya like a kid, or a brother, or a friend-with-benefits – but I can’t in the way you want me to.” 

“Like a lover,” Peter fills in. And discovers a chink of empathy, because he can’t imagine falling for say, Kraglin or Horuz. But if Yondu can’t fall for _anyone_ … He coughs and sits a little straighter. “Um. Is that a species thing then?” 

Sensing the difficult part’s over, Yondu bounces on the bed and idly scratches his nose. Guest etiquette ain’t the Ravagers’ strongpoint, but Peter still cringes when Yondu doesn’t remove his boots before tucking his feet up. Stretched out he could reach from one end to the other – Peter has to sleep like bug larvae or else his ankles get cold. “Kinda. When we was in tribes, we used to raise the kids like one big unit – all the papas and all the mamas pitching in, suckling any child that were hungry, warming any egg that needed it. No family ties meant no feuds, so it was better to live collective-like. But I know some folks preferred hitching up single-style. Weren’t much liked, back in the day – usually forced to go off and live solo, an’ I doubt many survived a week in the jungle.” He glances sideways. “Good thing I weren’t born one of ‘em, or I likely wouldn’t be around today.” 

That’s a probing statement if there ever was one. Peter lets his bodyweight crash besides him, a parody of the first night they’d spent naked in each other’s arms, and exhales at the ceiling. “Woulda saved me a lotta hassle, that’s for sure. I could be in college by now.” 

“You could be eaten by now,” Yondu corrects. But he’s smiling as he says it, and while Peter still yearns to taste that grin he can acknowledge now, just a fraction, that he was out of line when he’d gone against Yondu’s wishes before. Yondu must catch his lingering gaze because he rolls over – so languid it could almost be unconnected, but Peter’s learnt to recognize when Yondu’s blasé act’s feigned (if only he could get the same handle on his anger…) “It’s a shame you’re getting greedy,” he says. “That’s a damn fine Ravager trait, and it hurts me to rip it outta ya. But if that’s what I gotta do... I’ll treat you nice, but I ain’t ever gonna be your lover. Can you live with that?” 

“Yes,” Peter says, because he has no other option. He includes an unspoken addendum though: _For a while. Not forever_. He knows that sooner or later he’s going to have to choose between leaving and breaking, and either way he’ll be the one who’s hurt the more. 

Whether Yondu sees his inner thoughts, he’s evidently satisfied. “So how’s about you an’ me head back to my room and make our not-marriage official?” 

Jackass. But when the captain bounds upright and extends a hand to pull Peter to his feet, Peter takes it, and he doesn’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> **I wrote and edited this baby in a couple of frenzied hours. Please forgive any mistakes!**
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> **A lot of you are waiting on WIP updates from me. The order they're likely to come in goes thusly: We Three Kings, Lost In The Wood, Behind Closed Doors, Middle Age Spread and How To Hug A Ravager. I might dump a few more PATW chapters if anyone's still interested - although that fic is on indefinite hiatus because Exams And So Forth.**
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> **Anyway, please comment! x**
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> ****
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> ****


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